


Pain, Axe, Gin, and Sang

by doctor_not_your_girlfriend



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Botanist!Sherlock, Comes with a side of maple syrup, Gratuitous use of Canada, Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Lumberjack!John, M/M, Medical Procedures, Mild Blood, Occasional foul language, This is my chance to write a botany fic and I'm doing it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-26
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-29 04:36:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 8,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6359554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctor_not_your_girlfriend/pseuds/doctor_not_your_girlfriend
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dr Sherlock Holmes is a posh, world-renowned English botanist. Capt. John Watson (ret.) is a Canadian lumberjack. And Dr Irene Adler has gone missing somewhere in the forests of Ontario. From <a href="http://thetwelfthpanda.tumblr.com/post/141554551083/but-listen-sherlocks-this-posh-world-renowned">this</a> prompt from Ren (@TheTwelfthPanda).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kinklock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinklock/gifts).



“One last thing,” Dr Lestrade said, over the din of conversation and chairs moving away from desks. He waited for a pause. “Please keep Doctor Irene Adler in your thoughts. I’m sure you all remember her from her post-doctoral work here. I’m afraid I’ve got word from a colleague at McGill that she’s gone missing while out in the field.” A murmur rose from the faculty.

Sherlock Holmes looked up from his mobile, his attention returning to the room. Adler. The woman was always texting him from Canada. Must be costing her a fortune. He never bothered to reply of course, it was always something inane about _dinner_ , as if they would dine together despite the whole of the Atlantic and everything else between them. She’d been at Kew for a year, cataloguing Araliaceae species and digging through archives for some reason or another. Irrelevant to his work. He’d deleted it from his memory.

He certainly remembered _her_. The bothersome perfume, stinking up his workspace in the herbarium, red lipstick, perfectly coiffed hair, cleavage-revealing blouses, and of course, the gossip. Word was that she was carrying on with a graduate student 8 years her junior and they’d been frequenting London’s various BDSM clubs, though only Sherlock knew that Irene was the one who’d started the rumours about herself. True, he’d spotted them together, but the clubs were part of his research, it was only a coincidence.

He looked back at his mobile and checked his texts. The last one from Irene. _Let’s have dinner._ Three days ago. Dr Lestrade must have got word quickly. Sherlock hovered near his seat until most of the faculty had left the room, approaching Dr Lestrade swiftly.

“So,” he announced, and Dr Lestrade quirked a silver eyebrow. “About Doctor Adler.”

“Had a soft spot for Irene, did you, Sherlock? She certainly did for you.”

“Hardly,” Sherlock rumbled quietly. “When did you receive word she was missing?”

“Just today,” he said with a sigh. “She was due for work yesterday, missed giving a lecture, no word from her. They think she was out doing fieldwork, but no one knows anything for sure.”

“Fieldwork in…?”

“Bloody hell, Sherlock, she’s the most well-known authority on _Panax quinquefolius_ in the world, you of all people should know that.” Sherlock blinked. _Panax quinquefolius_. American ginseng. Aphrodisiac. Like the other Araliaceae. Superior to _Panax ginseng_ in potency, roots extremely valuable as medicine, now valued at £1500, _no, scratch that_ , £2100 per kilo. He could see it on a page in the herbarium in the library of his Mind Palace. _Herbaceous, serrate leaf margins, palmately compound leaves known colloquially as "prongs," centripetal umbelliform inflorescence, fruits drupes or berries, red at maturity._

“Ah, yes. Let me know if you get any news,” he said, feigning indifference.

“Of course. Also, you owe me a meeting. We’re due to go over your finances for your last expedition. There are a few…lines in your budget that need a better explanation than ‘drugs,’ or the director will have my head.”

“Shall I specify cocaine?” Sherlock asked. “Would that please them?” Dr Lestrade sighed.

“Look, I’m still your sodding advisor, I don’t care how long ago you graduated. I understand the importance of your research, you know you have my support. You’ve just got to be more careful.”

“They’ll thank me upstairs when Kew has the drug development rights to the world’s first centrally-acting analgesic with no risk of dependence.”

“That’s a dream.”

“I have seen it. The indigenous peoples of the Amazon basin have—”

“Doctor Lestrade?” It was Sally Donovan, his latest graduate student, glaring openly at Sherlock. “Are we still meeting?”

“I’ve got to go,” Dr Lestrade said, his voice lowered, and pointed at Sherlock’s chest. “Meeting. Send me an email.” He turned to speak to Sally.

“I prefer to text,” Sherlock sniffed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is entirely plotted and basically writes itself. Comment away, dears, and enjoy! I'll update tags once it's smutty ;)
> 
> I mean, just look at this inspiring art from TheTwelfthPanda:  
> 


	2. Chapter 2

Smokejumping. He set the phone down and stared out the window of his cabin into the dark forest beyond. Bill Murray must be nuts to think he could do it. Murray was the one who had dragged him out of the line of fire over in Panjwaii, he knew about the hole the sniper’s bullet had punched through his shoulder, had heard all about the injuries once John was conscious and recovering, first at Landstuhl in Germany and then at Petawawa back home.

He’d emailed on and off with his Army buddy, telling him about the broken clavicle, the nicked subclavian artery and collapsed lung, how he’d come down with a nasty infection from the dirty wound, and then another in his gut from the antibiotics, which caused joint pain in his feet and knees that made him limp. He’d endured grafts and scar tissue removal in his neck, and tendon surgeries in his left hand, trying to get the damn thing to uncurl from the useless claw shape it had assumed since the bullet sliced through his nerves.

He wasn’t a lefty anymore. He was thin and wasted from the gut infection and months of pain and inactivity. The limp was slowly fading now, but it had taken these 6 months just to be able to make a passable fist, and his hand still shook. He still had trouble sleeping, still had the dreams, waking himself with a shout, drenched in sweat. He was out, the Canadian Army said, not fit for duty.

Now Murray was out, too, and inviting him to come and fight wildfires. There was a physical, Murray said, and a single training course, plus you needed first aid training. Murray had laughed, knowing that as an Army medic he was obviously overqualified. The rest, you could learn on the job. That was it. The rest would be perfect for John. Out in the woods, digging trenches, the risk, the rush, the heat. He couldn’t wait to begin.

And so he went. 

His right arm was fine, in fact better than fine, and his left was, amazingly, able to keep up. He swung a pulaski as well as the rest of the crew, digging lines. In short order, he felt strong again, solid. He grew a beard. The shaking was mostly better, and he only noticed it once the fire was out, the actual firefighting giving him enough adrenaline and distraction from the noise and darkness in his head. He wasn’t useless, wasn’t broken when he was on a ridgeline, felling trees with a chainsaw to save a village or a house or a stand of old-growth forest.

He applied to be a smokejumper and they took him on, sending him to jump out of planes to fight fires in the most remote areas of the province. Every close call, every rough landing, brought him back to the realization that he was where he needed to be.

He could have gone on this way for years, following the fires, if it hadn’t been for another fateful call, this time from Harry. He was filthy from smoke, his leather boots partially melted from heat this time, barely able to hear his sister over the crackling radio. Their father, who hadn’t spoken to either of them in years, had died and left them the family business. There were contracts to keep and they were the only ones who could do it.

Capt. John Watson (ret.) returned home, to the woods he knew and the cabin he built, to start again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For reference, a pulaski:  
>   
> It's an axe. I'll leave you to imagine your own smokejumper!John.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock leaned back in his desk chair, steepling his hands beneath his chin in thought. The climate control system of the herbarium hummed in the background, a white noise that served to focus his concentration on the problem at hand.

_Where was Irene Adler?_

Irene's disappearance was problematic. Their relationship, such as it was, had ended abruptly after he had made the mistake of mentioning the real subject of his research to her one night. They had stood in the cold London air, leaning against the brick to share a cigarette, Sherlock's cocaine high ebbing while the music throbbed behind them.

"I thought you said it wasn't all about drugs?" she had teased. "That you were studying the social dimensions of coca production. The failures of the war on drugs in Colombia." She glanced over at his red-rimmed eyes, carefully passing the cigarette and noticing the shudder that passed through him.

"It's not," he had countered, taking a swift drag. "The jungle farmers and the FARC, those are my subjects."

"If what you're saying is true, it's worth billions of pounds."

"I know it is. Enough to pull the entire region out of poverty."

"You have proof of this, I suppose." He glanced at her sharply, seeing her face in profile, half-hidden by the high collar of her coat. She knew he did. His field notes, signed and witnessed by his assistant, Jorge, mailed to himself and locked up at Kew.

"Irene." It was a warning.

"It's rather late," she said, crushing the cigarette butt under the toe of her stiletto heel. He reached out for her arm.

"Let me call you a cab," he said, narrowing his eyes.

"I'm fine. Good night, Sherlock Holmes."

That was the last he'd seen of her. And the last he'd seen of his field notes, the only real proof of his discovery, aside from the unverifiable research on his laptop. 

 _Panax quinquefolius_ , or "sang," as he'd heard it referred to, was enough of a high-stakes crop that he didn't doubt there could be foul play involved in Irene's recent disappearance. Who would be better suited than him to find her? He knew her research methods as well as his own, because he had trained her. He had had enough close calls in Colombia with armed thugs that some backwoods bumpkins in  _Canada_  would be undoubtedly easy to handle. Once he found her...

Sherlock’s head jerked upward at the thought. He closed the open herbarium folio on his desk and packed up his things before approaching Molly, the assistant curator.

"Miss Hooper," he said, and gracelessly dumped the folio on her desk, rattling the gluepot she was using to painstakingly arrange a dried specimen on a page, tweezers in hand. Her thin lips curved into a tight smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “I’m going to be absent next week. I expect you’ll be capable of covering my plant taxonomy lectures. Essentially babysitting. I’m needed abroad.”

"And where are you off to now, Doctor Holmes? Colombia again? Or is it Peru?” She sighed, flicking her ginger braid over her shoulder and moving the folio away from her work.

"Canada."

❦ ❦ ❦ ❦ ❦

He reclined in his first-class seat, courtesy of his brother's credit card (why Mycroft hadn't noticed his credit card was missing was certainly a topic for later discussion). He couldn't possibly afford such accommodation on an academic's salary, of course.

He ran his hand down the page of his in-flight entertainment, a mildewed copy of _The Flora of Eastern North America_. He committed the plant family characteristics of Araliaceae to memory, placing them on a shelf in his Mind Palace. If he were lucky, his quarry would be in flower, if luckier still it would be in fruit, though the volume was published in 1972, and accounting for climate change, one could never be sure...

He was badly in need of the refresher, the plant families of Amazonía still in the forefront of his memory, arranged in the sitting room of his Mind Palace. He hadn't had much need for the rather more pedestrian families of North America and northern Europe since he was a boy, plucking flowers from hedgerows with his gran and tucking them into a plant press.

He sighed, shifting to glance out the window at the darkened ocean, before he returned to The Work.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock peered out the windscreen of his rented car at the long brick building before him, its grey-green patinated copper eaves and red tile roof much like the other nearby buildings on the McGill campus. Stone lettering above the entrance identified it as the Raymond Building. He pulled into a car park next to the greenhouse and switched off the engine.

He flipped down the driver’s side visor, running his hands through his hair for a moment to be sure he didn’t look too suspiciously dishevelled, though on an academic campus he doubted anyone would mind. The airline had lost his _bloody_ bag, and all he had with him was his day pack, containing his flora and another volume on pollinators he’d been hoping to read. At least he had been travelling wearing a suit and could easily pass for a rumpled professor.

A quick scan of the directory in the front entrance led him to the Plant Sciences Department, where the front desk was staffed by a young woman with long, wavy brown hair, who glanced up at him as he approached.

“Hello,” she said, and flashed a smile. So he did look presentable, then.

“Good morning,” he began, “I wonder if you can help me. I’m looking for a friend of mine.” He forced a smile, trying to imagine it reaching his eyes.

“Nice accent,” she said, an Irish lilt rising at the end like a question. “Are you English, then?”

“Yes, from London,” he said, endeavouring to sound conversational.

“Oh, _London_ ,” she said, and he didn’t miss the flirtatious inflection. “Who’re you looking for then, Mister…?”

“Holmes,” he said. “The name is Sherlock Holmes. I was in town and hoping to pop in and see Doctor Adler.”

“I’m Janine,” she said with another flash of a smile. “Just Janine. Umm,” she paused nervously. “So, you haven’t heard the news, then?”

“The news?” he asked, feigning ignorance. He hoped he wouldn’t regret lying. “No, why?”

“It’s just that…she’s gone missing.”

“Missing?” Sherlock asked, arranging his features into what he hoped was sufficient surprise. “How dreadful! When did this happen?”

“It’s all over the news! Four days ago. She was out doing fieldwork and it’s like she vanished into thin air, can you believe it?”

“Does anyone know where she might have been doing her research?”

“Oh, the Mounties’ve been all over her office, but I haven’t heard anything yet.” She shook her head. “Asked me loads of questions. She’s always going off to the woods, usually takes someone with her, usually her field tech Kate, but not this time. Most of her plots are south of here, that’s where they’ve been looking.”

“Shocking stuff. She and I worked together in London, you know. At Kew.” Janine shook her head in sympathy.

“I thought your name was familiar. You poor man, I’m sorry.” She stood and was next to him, resting a hand on his arm. He ignored the feeling of his skin crawling in response and continued trying to look stricken.

“I’d like to help if I could,” he tried. “I don’t think she’d mind if I took a quick look around her office, do you?”

“Not if it could help find her, I’m sure,” Janine said, nodding, and retrieved keys from her desk. “I’ll show you in.” She led Sherlock down the hall, who was quickly calculating how much would be a reasonable amount of time to look like he was helping. “The Mounties tried not to make too much of a mess,” Janine was saying as she unlocked it. “These dear Canadians, trying to be polite even while they turn a place upside-down.”

Sherlock stepped in, glancing around at stacks of books and papers, most of them pulled out of the emptied bookshelves lining the walls. His gaze landed on a drooping _Dieffenbachia seguine_ near the window.

“My goodness,” he rumbled, and picked up the houseplant. “Janine, this fellow looks like he could use a stiff drink. Would you mind…?”

“You plant types are all the same,” she said with a laugh, and took the terra cotta pot from him. “Back in a jiff.” He watched her retreat and swiftly turned to the stacks around him, rapidly rifling through all of the papers, searching for the black spine of his notebook. His notes _had_ to be here. There wasn’t a safe, was there? He crouched and looked under the desk, and found no sign of a false drawer bottom or any other hiding place. He slid open all the drawers and, in the back of one, he found a small black case. It looked like a pencil case to an untrained eye, but he flipped it open, and sure enough, inside was a handheld GPS unit. He pressed the power button and waited for it to light up.

“I think he’s less thirsty now,” Janine announced, just as he slid the device into his pocket. “He can keep me company up front in case he needs a top-up.” Sherlock nodded approvingly, and met her in the hallway, closing Irene’s office door behind him.

“I’m sure Irene…I'm sure she would appreciate that.” His tone was purposefully wistful.

“Did you find anything?” Sherlock shook his head.

“I’ve had about as much luck as the Mounties, I suppose,” he said, and shrugged with a sigh. “I do appreciate your help, but I’d best be off,” he told her.

“We’ll have to leave it to the authorities, then. I am sorry about your friend, Sherlock Holmes,” she told him. “We’re all hoping for good news.”

“Of course,” he said, and turned to her. “Good day, Janine.”

He jogged down the steps and hurried to his car, feeling the weight of the GPS unit bump against his leg. Once safely back in his rental, he pulled it out and stared at the brightly-coloured face. He clicked through it, looking at the saved data points.

 _SANG-01_  
_SANG-02_  
_SANG-03_  
_PATCH-01_  
_FIELD-01_ …

The time and date stamps were all within the last month, which was a good sign, and it had been synced recently. This must have been the unit her field tech had been using. He went back to the main map screen and then pulled out his phone, putting in the coordinates of the most recently-plotted GPS point. Southern Ontario, about 4 hours drive from McGill.

“Do be obvious, Irene,” he said, and started the engine.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock picked up his phone and glanced down, sneering before he swiped the screen to answer. “What do you want?” Sherlock said peevishly, his phone propped on the dash.

“I want know why you’re currently,” there was a pause, “60 kilometres west of _Ottawa_ , little brother.” The voice on the other end of the line dripped with the impatience that only came from being used to entirely too much authority.

“Surely you’ve deduced it,” Sherlock replied. “Felt I could do with a holiday.”

"Have you found your notes, yet?" Sherlock didn’t reply, his expression growing pinched. "No, of course not. And you haven’t found your Doctor Adler, either. Good luck finding her without my help, and you’ll be needing a new ticket to get yourself home. My guess is you’ve got about…three hours until you are pulled over for driving a car you hired with a nicked credit card."

"I think two hours," Sherlock corrected. "Lovely chat, much too dangerous while I’m driving, what with everything on the wrong side of the road and all of the moose wandering about—" he hung up mid-sentence to emphasize his point.

❦ ❦ ❦ ❦ ❦

Sherlock’s phone signal had long since disappeared, and he was following the handheld GPS now, having crossed onto provincial public land. The trees stretched completely across him overhead, forming a canopy of shaded green, the roadway decorated with dappled sunlight. He had the windows down, letting the rush of cool forest air fill the car.

He’d already been to two of Irene’s sites, without much to show for it. Yes, there was ginseng growing there, but they were isolated patches in the woods, not telling him much of anything. There was nothing and no one nearby, no smashed vegetation from a fight or struggle, no recent tire tracks in the mud besides his own. He didn’t even see signs of herbivory, though he looked for traces of passing rabbits or deer.

The ginseng itself was in flower and the plants were quite mature. The patch of 15 plants he saw would have been worth hundreds of pounds if it were found and harvested. He had scattered dried leaves over the patch as he left, hoping to keep it hidden from the eyes of hikers or bikers.

He followed the small map as the tarmac ended, his car bumping along. He was less worried about being pulled over now that he was this far back into the woods, though he continued to glance in his rear view mirror for…Mounties? Park rangers? He wondered who would bother to be out here.

He turned down a gravel track and the quality of the road quickly deteriorated, forcing him to weave back and forth to avoid the largest of the rocks and potholes. A loud scraping sound came from in front of him and he came to a stop, worried he was stuck or had lost the oil pan. He cut the engine and stepped out, only to see that the cheap plastic bumper of the car had become dislodged by a rock. He shook his head and snapped the bumper back on before stepping back to take a look at the road.

It looked even worse ahead and he could hear running water, probably a stream. If he had known he’d be lucky enough to find the GPS, he would have sprung (well, Mycroft would have sprung) for an SUV. He glanced down at his leather shoes, already caked in dust, and his dirty trouser cuffs ringed with mud, and reached in the car for his day pack and the GPS. Hefting the bag onto his shoulders, he rolled up his sleeves and set off down the road, looking for the next site and any sign of Irene.

❦ ❦ ❦ ❦ ❦

That morning had been cool, clear, and breezy as John gathered his gear, loading his pickup truck. He pulled on his thick work boots and a well-worn plaid coat, tossing his hard hat and thick gloves in the cab. He filled his mug with the dregs from the coffee pot and whistled for Gladstone, who trundled after him on his short bulldog legs.

John lifted the dog into the truck and headed for the day’s site in the woods, which was a provincial contract. The government had been all too happy to hire a local logging company owned by a veteran for the job, and John and his crew were just as happy to oblige. Watson Timber was finally making a profit after a few tough seasons since Harry and John’s father had passed, and this contract was the latest in a string of good luck for the business.

He bumped down the road, blaring the Beatles and singing along, Gladstone propped against his side. His radio crackled on the dash and he picked up.

“Yeah, Harry, go ahead.”

“Morning.” John didn’t want to guess whether she was hungover or not. “Call came in from town, half a tree’s down on High Street and needs cleared, over.”

“We’re out here all day, call up Mike and see if he’s free, over.”

“Mike is in Miami, over.” John laughed.

“Bastard. Tell whoever called that I can deal with it at lunchtime, I’ll make an extra trip. Over and out,” he added as an afterthought. He was nearing the work site, a network of cable strung overhead to get the logs out without damaging the immature trees. He pulled off the forest road and parked, letting the scent of newly-sawn pine envelop him in its familiarity.

❦ ❦ ❦ ❦ ❦

Sherlock was moving as quickly as he could, despite the increasing humidity of the day and his progressive _dishabille_. He had removed his dress shirt when rolling up the sleeves proved not to be enough in the heat, and he knew the mosquitoes had found him. They were, thankfully, not carrying malaria like they did in Colombia, but he already had welts on his arms and was starting to feel uncomfortably itchy.

There were many wildflowers in bloom, and Sherlock had stopped more than once to admire the delicate green inflorescences of the wintergreen  _Pyrola chlorantha_ and a rare stand of _Corallorhiza maculata_ , an otherworldly pink stick of a plant, a saprophyte that lacked chlorophyll. He forded small streams, his feet sliding off the slick rocks and leaving him with soaked socks.

In his itchy, sweaty, jet-lagged state, Sherlock focused all of his attention on getting to his next data point as quickly as possible. The track was distinctly a hiking trail at this point, and was quite loose and rocky under his smooth-soled dress shoes.

He had less than a kilometre to go, his head bent to peer at the GPS, when his left foot slid and he stumbled, stepping down sharply into a hole with his right. His forward momentum propelled him to the ground, his foot caught in the hole, and he felt a distinct pop in his ankle just as he felt a sharp impact on his left knee. He tried to break his fall and his hands skidded on gravel, the GPS flying out of his hand.

He watched in what felt like slow motion as the device tumbled down the embankment and came to rest under a honeysuckle bush. He stared at his hands, watching as a mosquito alit on his knuckle and unfurled its proboscis. Pain bloomed in his knee and ankle, rousing him, and he tried to stand. His legs gave way and he slumped back onto the ground, trying to unfold from his painful, crumpled heap.

Straightening his legs in front of him, he surveyed the damage. The left knee of his trousers was torn and he could see he was bleeding, a dark stain spreading as he watched. He growled in annoyance and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, folding it in half and tying it around the bleeding wound. One ankle was fine, but the other was protesting loudly and wouldn’t obey his command when he tried to point his toes.

"Bugger," he mumbled, and then louder, "fuck!" He pulled on his shirt, leaving it unbuttoned, feeling more mosquitoes landing on his exposed back. Scooting on his backside, he manoeuvered himself to the edge of the trail and levered himself over the edge, sliding feet first down the hillside towards the GPS. Unable to quite reach it, he found a stick and, after several tries, hooked it by its carrying strap. Panting from the effort, he looked at the screen.

It was dead.

Sherlock put his head back and looked up at the sky. No one knew he was here. His phone was useless. Irene certainly wasn’t here, how could she be? Nothing was here. He would have to drag himself back to the car. He started to hope a bear would find and devour him, if only to save him from the tediously arduous effort ahead.

A crash echoed in the woods and he lifted his head in surprise. He’d been hearing saws and machinery from far off earlier, and it seemed that the bend in the trail he had just rounded brought him closer to the source. Why hadn’t he been hearing anything before then? He glanced back at the sun overhead and realized they must have stopped for lunch. The sawing continued in earnest and he lay on the hillside, listening for a pause.

“HELLOOOO!!” he called as loudly as he could, cupping his hands at his mouth. “HELP!”


	6. Chapter 6

John wiped his brow, securing one of the chains on the log truck, and looked up towards the woods. Archie, the crew’s tree planter, and Tommy, the swamper, looked up, too.

“Did you hear something?” Archie asked them, resting his gloved forearm on his dibble bar.

“Someone’s up there,” Tommy agreed. “IS SOMEONE THERE?” he called, waiting. John heard a chainsaw fire up again and whistled sharply through his teeth, waving at the nearby sawyer to stop. “IS ANYONE THERE?” Tommy tried again in the silence.

“HELP!” came the reply. They all heard it. With a shared look, the men set down their heavy gear and started up the hillside. John jogged to his truck and grabbed out his emergency aid kit, rousing Gladstone from a midday nap. Feeling a sense of calm wash over him, he swiftly caught up to the other men, who were calling back and forth up the hillside.

“Archie, I’ll send you back down to radio to town if we need to,” John said.

“Sure thing, John.” They crashed along through the undergrowth towards the voice, John in the lead now, Tommy calling out at intervals. John could see a flash of white through the woods and knew they were close.

“Keep talking, Tommy. CALL OUT TO US!” John yelled.

“I’M HERE!” The voice had an accent to it, something British, maybe? He rounded a large beech a moment later and looked down. A man was sprawled on the ground in the loam, his tailored shirt hanging open, muddied trousers tied at the knee with what looked like a bit of silk cloth stained with blood, and wearing leather shoes. The man was conscious and breathing, though his respiration rate was fast at first glance, and he was worryingly pale. John dropped his kit to the ground and opened it swiftly.

“Hello, I’m John. Can you tell me your name?”

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” was the response.

“Sorry?” John shook his head. “Sir, can you tell me your name? I’m here to help you.” John rolled up the sleeves of his plaid coat and pulled on a nitrile glove.

“Which was it – Afghanistan or Iraq?”

“It was Afghanistan, actually, though I have no idea how you would know that.” He looked up into the stranger’s face, startled by the piercing gaze that met his own.

“The name is Sherlock Holmes,” he said, and held out his hand. “I’m afraid I’ve sprained my ankle rather badly.” John shook his hand and then slid to his wrist, taking his pulse. His heart rate was elevated.

“Well, Sherlock Holmes, let’s get you down off this trail, then.” He pulled out a roll of gauze, then reached for the bandage on Sherlock’s knee. “I’ll take a better look at this when you’re not sitting in the dirt,” he remarked, and untied it to put a wad of bandaging on top, compressing the bleeding wound, glancing up and meeting the calculating gaze again. He looked down and deftly wrapped the knee with the gauze. “Can you tell me what happened?”

“I stepped in a hole and went arse over tit,” he replied with a grin. “Landed on a rock.” John moved to his ankle and noted how swollen it was.

“Can you bend your ankle at all? Point your toes?” Sherlock shook his head, though he clearly tried to move, inhaling sharply through his teeth. “How did you manage to get out here? And might I ask what you were doing?”

“I’m a botanist and I was—!” Sherlock was interrupted by pain as John wiggled his shoe off. “Working!”

“Not really dressed for a hike, eh?” Tommy chimed in, and John shot him a look. He was wrapping Sherlock’s swollen ankle in an elastic bandage.

“Would have been, if not for my lost case.” Sherlock winced when John let go of his neatly-wrapped ankle.

“You lost a case? Are you a lawyer, too?” Archie asked. John shook his head.

“He means suitcase. Fucking Air Canada.” John commiserated, and smiled. “Time to go. Let’s get you back into town. My guess is the way that’s bleeding, you’re going to need some stitches.” John handed his kit to Tommy, and Archie scrambled to take Sherlock’s pack and discarded shoe.

“How are we doing this, John?” Archie asked, looking down at Sherlock.

“No ‘we’ this time,” John said. “Sherlock, I’m going to pick you up, alright? It’s called a fireman’s carry. I’m going to—”

“I’m going to bleed on you,” Sherlock warned him, and swept a hand haughtily through his sweaty brown curls. “I know what a fireman’s carry is.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” John said lightly, as he hoisted Sherlock up by lifting under his arms.

Sherlock found himself suddenly looking at the ground as John slung him across his shoulders, holding Sherlock’s leg and arm together in front of him. They were swiftly moving down the hillside, and Sherlock was afforded a fantastic view of the passing understory vegetation.

“Wait!” Sherlock called, and John paused. “ _Chimaphila maculata_! We’re too far north for this to be its range,” he gesticulated behind them. “It’s endangered! We have to document it!”

“I don’t know whether this is because you’re a botanist, British, or you’re completely insane, but you and I clearly have different priorities,” John said. “And there is definitely no spotted wintergreen out here.”

“John!” Stifling an eye roll, John turned and trudged uphill a few steps, Sherlock’s loose arm slapping against his thigh.

“Fantastic!” John said, surprised at the dark whorl of leaves near his feet. “I take it back, that is...amazing.”

“You think so?” Sherlock asked, surprised. His voice was starting to sound congested from hanging upside-down like a lame bat. “People don’t usually say that when I find an endangered plant in the middle of their logging operation.”

“What do they usually say?”

“Piss off.” Their laughter echoed into the clearing below.

“You can come back here and document whatever you want when you’re not bleeding on me.” John said. “It will still be blooming if you come back tomorrow.” He continued down the hillside. “Though this isn’t exactly good for my business.”

“John!”

“I can help you, Mister Holmes,” Archie said gamely.

“Excellent initiative,” Sherlock stated. “I shall make you my field assistant.”

“Get the tailgate, would you, Tommy?” John lowered Sherlock onto the truck bed with a slight thud. “Sorry. Your field assistant can probably go back to planting,” he added. Archie handed Sherlock his pack and picked up his dibble bar, shoulders slumping. John checked the bandaging on Sherlock’s knee and saw it had soaked through already. He pulled out his kit and added more gauze, trying to stanch it. “Yep, stitches. Back into town for us. Tommy,” he called, “you can take over until five. Let the crew know I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Can’t you stitch it here?” John swallowed, and then his eyes narrowed.

“You don’t want me doing that, trust me.” He held up his left hand to show Sherlock the slight tremor, but his hand was still. “Hm. It uh, shakes. Sometimes.” He held out his arm to Sherlock. “I assume you want to ride up front. Gladstone will share.” Sherlock carefully slid off the tailgate and experimentally stood on his good ankle, wincing at how his injured knee suddenly protested. John stepped to support him, slinging Sherlock’s arm over his shoulder.

“Like the Prime Minister?” Sherlock gingerly settled into the truck’s cab.

“What? No idea. Named him after the town in Manitoba where I found him. Fought a fire out there in 2012.” He picked up the radio and flicked it on. “Harry, I’ve got a lost botanist with me? Over.”

“Very funny,” came the crackling response.

“No, no joke! I’m coming into town, over.”

“Copy. See you soon, over.”

“Harry, call ahead please, and let Sarah know I’m stopping by, over.”

“I’m not a dating service, you dick.” John glanced at Sherlock, who was clearly focusing on the exchange, despite Gladstone’s insistence to be petted.

“This guy needs stitches, Harry, stop being impossible, over and out.” He switched the radio off and put his truck into gear. “Sorry about that.”

“Sister? Drinking problem, maybe?” John snorted as they turned onto the forest road.

“You don’t know the half of it.” He glanced at Sherlock, who was contentedly rubbing the bulldog’s ears. “Hey. You never answered me. How on earth did you know that about me? About Afghanistan. I was a medic, by the way.”

“Tattoo on your forearm. Canadian Army motto.” John nodded in approval.

“And how about Harry?”

“Bickering with you and slurred speech in the middle of the afternoon.”

“Who _are_ you?”

“You already know my name, John, really.” He was rewarded with a wolfish grin.

“I did want to be clear on one thing, though. I’m a forester. Trained before I went off to the Army. I run a logging business, but we’re clearing out trees to reduce the fire risk out here.”

“No logger would know a spotted wintergreen from the Latin alone,” Sherlock agreed, and went back to looking out the window.

“That and Harry is my brother, not my sister,” John said, and smiled. Sherlock appeared to take this into consideration, clearly wondering how he had got it wrong. “No, no! Just kidding. Though it’s fine, by the way.”

“Yes, I _know_ it’s fine,” Sherlock mumbled, and then he shouted, “STOP!” John braked carefully, not wanting to slide into the ditch.

“Jesus! What is it?” He looked where Sherlock was pointing. “I don’t see anything.”

“In the shrubbery, John! See it? It’s a car, hidden by those boughs. That’s Irene’s car.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> About that little plant Sherlock spotted: finding an endangered species in a patch of forest means that forest now is protected land--so no more logging. Sorry, John.  
> 


	7. Chapter 7

John was out of the truck’s cab swiftly, stalking towards the woods. Sherlock swallowed, taking renewed notice of his rescuer. _Compact fellow. Fit. All that…logging, no doubt. Good with his hands. Didn’t seem unsteady to me. Good with tools. Sun-bleached hair, fetching beard, at least one tattoo. Maybe more? Yes, more. Plaid shirt half undone, rather sizeable bloodstain on the shoulder, my fault, but quite a pleasingly rugged effect. And again, that beard…_

“I still don’t see it.”

“There!” Sherlock pointed, dropping one hand to grab the collar of an exuberant Gladstone, who was climbing over him. “It’s in that stand of _Amelanchier_.” He moved to open the door and get out, when John turned back to him.

“Stay there.” The commanding tone in his voice made Sherlock’s spine straighten. “I see it.” John stalked over to the car, evidently a green Subaru parked among the dense serviceberry bushes. “There are branches piled on top,” he called.

“Don’t get too close,” Sherlock called. “Can you see in?”

“There’s no one in it. Nothing in it. Glove box is open, it’s empty.” He could hear crunching as John edged close enough to look. John circled back to the truck in a wide arc, standing at Sherlock’s door and crossing his arms.

“What the _hell_ is this all about?”

“I’m…” Sherlock decided to tell the truth, or something close to it. “I’m looking for a…friend. Her name is Irene. Dr. Irene Adler. She disappeared, and that,” he pointed, “is her car.”

“A friend?” Sherlock looked stricken, hoping it wasn’t that obvious that he hadn’t any friends. “All the way out here?” He was reaching across Sherlock’s lap, who instantly felt heat rise into his cheeks. _My God, am I…blushing?_ he thought furiously. _No, obviously I’m sunburnt._ John deftly flipped open the center console and pulled out a roll of something neon.

“A botanist. She was doing her research and no one’s seen her since Friday.” John unrolled a thin strip of neon plastic and swiftly ripped it with his teeth.

“And you’ve called the police,” John stated.

“They know. Mounties are involved.” John was on the edge of the road, tying the neon flagging to an overhanging branch, his shirt lifting to reveal a glimpse of his taut stomach.

“I’ll radio it in. Have Harry send them out here right away.” He jogged back to the truck and reached for the radio.

“John,” Sherlock interjected, “I don’t know if the Mounties will take kindly to my involvement in this.” John cocked his head thoughtfully.

“Because you’ve been looking for her, and the police don’t consult amateurs. You don’t want them thinking you’re some kind of vigilante.”

“They’ll ignore me if they think that, and I just want Irene found.” Sherlock turned away to arrange his face into something more blank and less smirking. He wasn’t about to mention the other trouble he was in. Not just yet.

“Don’t worry,” John said. “I’ll call it in myself, then. Weird that I didn’t see it at first. Must not have had my eyes on.” He flashed a grin at Sherlock, who was suddenly even more sure he was sunburned.

 

❦ ❦ ❦ ❦ ❦

 

“Please don’t tell me I have to manage any traumatic amputations.” Sarah looked into the truck and down at Sherlock’s bandaged knee. “Not again.”

“Nope. Just needs some stitching,” John said. “Maybe an X-ray. Sherlock, Dr. Sarah Sawyer, and Sarah, this is Sherlock.”

“Pleased to meet you. Can you walk?”

“Not well, I’m afraid.” Sherlock squinted up at her in the fading sunlight, and tried once more to climb down from the truck. When that attempt failed, John and Sarah maneuvered him into a wheelchair and into an exam room in the small clinic.

“Thanks for seeing him after hours, Sarah.”

“Is there such a thing?” she asked. John helped Sherlock onto the table and he lay back, looking up at the dingy ceiling tiles. Sarah snapped on gloves and started cutting away blood-soaked bandages. “How’d you hurt yourself?” she asked him.

“Fell on a rock.” Sherlock grinned sheepishly. “Not exactly equipped for today’s expedition.”

“Overdressed, I’d say. I’m just going to inject a little anesthetic,” she said, turning to draw up a solution from a vial. “It’s not bleeding too badly, but you’ll need stitches.” Sherlock braced himself for the injection, but quickly relaxed as the sting disappeared. “And it’s deep.” She looked up into Sherlock’s face. “Two choices. Either you keep this knee dry and immobilized, and I use surgical glue, or you don’t and I stitch.”

“Stitch.” He replied immediately. He glanced at John and saw him smirk. He sniffed in response.

“I’ll, uh…wait out here.”

“Sounds good, John,” Sarah replied, already engrossed in irrigating and prepping the wound. “Sherlock’s an interesting name,” she began. “Is it…French?” Sherlock goggled at her, realizing he was now completely at a loss for how to make small talk with her.

“Er…English,” he said carefully. He didn’t want to risk putting her off too badly, at least until she was done stitching. “My…my parents wanted an unconventional name.”

“Mmm,” she said, thankfully concentrating too much on her stitching to continue the odious chatting. “Don’t watch if this is making you queasy,” she said, and before he knew it, she was tying off the last stitch.

“Fuck!” they heard John say clearly from the other room.

“John? What is it?”

He burst back in through the exam room door.

“Mounties.” John’s worry was written across his features. “Sarah, can you talk to them? Just…we need a minute.”

“Are you in trouble?” She looked from John to Sherlock and back again.

“No, it’s nothing like that, just, stall them. Please.” She sighed and snapped off her gloves.

“Alright. Sherlock, we’re not quite done, so don’t get down yet.”

John stood in front of the exam table. “What do I tell them? This is not. Good.”

“Not so loud. I’m sure they want to ask you about Irene’s car,” Sherlock whispered. “You called them, and they know you are here because your truck is in front. That’s it.”

“Shit. This shirt.” John looked down at the bloodstain on his shoulder and chest. “Pretty fucking suspicious.” He began unbuttoning it swiftly, stripping down to a tight white undershirt.

“What are you doing?” Sherlock demanded with a hiss. John pointed to himself and then to Sherlock. “We are not switching! I’m twice your size, don’t be ridiculous!” John’s expression darkened to a glare. “Just…here.” Sherlock was ripping open the sterile gauze meant for his knee wound. “Hold this.” He swiftly wrapped John’s head with gauze, making it look as if a head wound had dripped onto his shirt.

“Jesus, Sherlock.”

“Trust me.” He turned John toward the exam door, and caught a glimpse of something at the small of his back, tucked into his waistband. Something that looked like a gun.

“Hello, officer,” John said, stepping into the waiting room. “Dr. Sawyer here was just patching me up."

“Are you all right, Mr. Watson? Sorry to come find you like this, I just had some questions."

“Dimmock, is it?” John asked, reading his badge. “Just a graze, nothing serious. Bled a lot. How can I help you?" He reached out and shook the officer’s hand.

“Oh, yeah. I’m Officer Dimmock, RCMP. Nice to meet ya. Tell me how you found the car.”

“Driving home from work. I saw it from the forest road. Tied up some flagging and radioed it in. Looked abandoned.”

“And was that before or after you, ah, hurt your head there?”

“Oh, after. This was, well, a work accident. Clipped by a branch.”

“Those trees jump out in front of ya, do they?” They chuckled together. “Did you touch the car at all?”

“No, no. Just looked in.”

“Say, d’you know about another car in those woods? We found a rental car this afternoon, registered to a Mycroft Holmes. Turns out the guy's brother stole his bank card and rented it. Sherlock, he’s called. Six feet, brown hair, blue eyes. British accent. Ring any bells?”

“Weird name like that? No, I’d notice.” He clutched the bandage on his head just as it threatened to slip down and cover his eye.

“I’d bet, eh. Ok, well, better see that doctor.”

“Thanks. It’s sort of…oozing.” Dimmock looked fleetingly horrified.

“I’ll call if I have more questions.” The men shook hands again and John watched as the officer’s car pulled out of the lot. John turned and went back into the exam room, where Sarah was gently prodding and moving Sherlock’s ankle.

“I’m going to let Dr. Sawyer finish,” John said carefully, “and then you’re going to finish telling me who you are and what the _fuck_ you’re doing here.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: homophobia, violence, and foul language.

This wasn’t the first time he’d been confronted by an angry man with a gun. And, given his basic ability to generally _piss people off_ , it wouldn’t be the last, either. True, he was far from the Colombian jungle, but he may as well have been back there…

“ _Mierda_.” Sherlock looked up from the radio dials as the approaching rumble of a truck became clearer.

“Don’t panic,” Sherlock said quietly to his field assistant, Antonio, who had visibly blanched in the driver’s seat. “Let me handle them.” Antonio shook his head, closing his eyes for a long beat. Sherlock felt beads of sweat break out on his brow.

Their Land Rover had chosen precisely the wrong place to break down. They had been on their way back from a coca farm, interviewing the farmers and collecting specimens, when the engine had overheated. Despite their best efforts, they hadn’t been able to start it again. Antonio suspected an electrical problem. Fried wires or a melted connection or something else boring but equally inconvenient.

The CB radio was working thanks to an internal battery, but none of their contacts were willing to come deep into FARC territory this late in the day. Dusk was already upon them when the truck appeared, packed with a squad of heavily armed, green khaki-clad FARC soldiers. There were several thuds as men descended from the truck.

“Who’s this skinny _cacorro_?” a soldier with chiseled features demanded, casually pointing his AK-103 into the cab of the Rover. Already calling him by the Colombian word for faggot. “ _¿Qué haces aquí?_ What are you doing here? Don’t you know you shouldn’t be out after dark?”

“ _Somos botánicos_ ,” Antonio stated. “We are botanists. Researching the plants of the jungle.”

“I asked him, _güevón_ ,” the soldier stated. “You speak Spanish?”

“ _Hablo_.” Sherlock said, and glanced at him. “Shouldn’t you be going home to your wife?” he asked, looking at the gun before looking up into the soldier’s face. “She’s fucking your neighbor. If you go home now, you’ll catch them in the act.”

“ _Pendejo_ ,” the soldier spat. “Get out. Get out of the truck!” The squad had collected around the Rover and before he could open the door himself, Sherlock was jerked roughly out and thrown on the ground.

“No, no,” he heard Antonio beg, and then something smacked against the side of his head. Probably the butt of an assault rifle. Dazed, Sherlock pushed himself up onto his hands and knees, only to be met by a swift kick to the ribs.

“How do you know about my wife!?” the squad commander yelled somewhere near him. Sherlock groaned, trying to bring his hands up to clutch his side.

“Your uniform…still stiff from soap…she’s not washing your clothes well.” He coughed. “Either she is terrible at laundry or she is taking care of someone else.” Sherlock gulped in air, bracing for another blow. He looked up after a moment, only to see the commander laughing silently.

“I had suspected something,” he said. “I knew it!” He laughed out loud and was joined swiftly by the other soldiers. They had descended on the Rover and were going through the equipment and their belongings. One of them had Sherlock’s wallet. Another had picked up the plant press and was yanking out pages.

“Those are important specimens,” Sherlock called out. The soldier looked up from his task, made eye contact, and ripped an herbarium sheet in two.

“It’s coca leaf,” he called out to the commander.

“What are you doing with coca?” he sneered down at Sherlock. “All of the coca in this jungle belongs to us.”

“Yes,” Sherlock said.

“It’s not for _carechimbas_ like you to make into _artesanias_ ,” he commented, as if their precious plant specimens were cheap souvenirs.

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed again, trying to appear more contrite. He could hear Antonio groaning and hoped he wasn’t hurt too badly.

“Destroy his little arts and crafts project,” the commander called, and the soldiers were tearing up the specimens with gusto, grinding scraps into the mud under their boots. “We catch you with our coca again and you’re going to rot in this jungle. You’re going to wish your slut mother had never given birth to you. You’re going to beg for your life and for your _gringo_ friends to pay your ransom before you lose all your fingers. Do you understand, _Señor_ _botánico_?”

“ _Entiendo_.” Sherlock nodded. “I understand.”

“Let’s go! Some bastard is fucking my wife!” the commander yelled. And just like that, they were gone.

Sherlock struggled to his feet and found Antonio, who lay on his back on the ground next to the Rover.

“Your stupid mouth,” he groaned. “Your stupid idiot mouth! My head, my head…”

“They’re gone, Nino. Do you think you can sit up?” Sherlock brought him water from the truck and they sat together in the dark, swatting mosquitoes and passing the water bottle back and forth.

“Did they take the radio?” Sherlock nodded soberly. “Okay, _genio_. What do we do now?”

“You got knocked in the head. I’ll stay awake tonight and keep an eye on you. We walk back to town in the morning. Get a mechanic.”

“Crazy bastard.”

“Here, have some more water.”

❦ ❦ ❦ ❦ ❦

He took a deep breath and looked John in the eye.

“The name is Sherlock Holmes. The address is 221B Baker Street. John, as you are armed and I am not, I will gladly tell you anything else you'd care to know."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mierda = shit  
> cacorro = fag  
> güevón = idiot  
> pendejo = asshole  
> carechimba = dickface  
> genio = genius
> 
> Did I really start this little story nine months ago? I am currently holed up in a writer's studio with owls hooting outside...so, a fantastic time and place to write and finish this up. Thanks for all the comments.


End file.
